


miami bath salt zombies

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Biting, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-07 06:00:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: “Ow, what the fuck,” Gerard says and works his jaw, nose brushing against the crook of Mikey's elbow, “that is, like, so hard to do. Movies are liars.”
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 1
Kudos: 41





	miami bath salt zombies

**Author's Note:**

> kind of an accidental sequel to boxing w glass but in an alternate reality where internet gore was around in 1990something
> 
> edit: reread and realized for some fucking reason all my italics didnt come through...should have it fixed now html is a bitch

Outside, past the glass, snow’s coming down in heavy, silent-film clumps even though it’s hardly been November for a week yet, even though it was warm enough for tee shirts yesterday. Rain to sleet to this; there's a good inch of white barred on the basement window already.

"Fucken' blizzard," Mikey says, bending backward over the couch and cracking his back. His weight tips it just slightly, enough to pull at the bottom of his stomach a little, make him think he's going over; Gerard, stage left, flinches out palms-first like he's gonna catch him but he's already bent back over to balance it out. He makes an air-filled noise from between his teeth.

"You’re gonna break your neck like that." He bunches up the leg of his jeans, twists, lets it go slow. His eyes are a touch out of focus, pupils wide and glinting like the bottom of a well.

Mikey grins, calls him Twitchy, settles back down and digs his heels into the shag carpet.

It’s so cold in here. Every strip of exposed skin— fingertips poking out of his gloves, the wrist space after his sleeves, his ankles— feels like it’s getting freezer burnt. He’d popped the X and cranked up the heater at the same time and made a bet with Gerard that one would kick in before the other, but the stupid thing is he can’t remember if he's on the losing side or not.

It’s just setting in, pileup like the snow beating against the windows, whisper-tick against the glass, behind the glass. It’s settling and he's rolling, and it started with _Mikey you ever done rave drugs_ and _Mikey try this I love it, you’ll love it,_ and sure, he decided to up and love it, but this roll is downhill and things are starting to blur past. The TV— set on _Star Trek: Deep Space Nine_ just for Gerard— seems either slow-mo or double-time, two episodes over before he realizes but passing so, so slow; sweat prickling under his clothes, caught at his joints; how soft the cheap fake suede of the couch feels against his cheek when he drags his face across it again, and again, and again, breath sticking up the fabric. It’s fucking weird, stronger than anything he's ever tried, not like weed or booze or that one half-nostril of coke he filched at one of Gerard’s friend’s skeevy garage band gig-party thing, the R+ rated one he wasn’t supposed to be at but he slid in behind Gerard and he didn’t say shit so whatever, it was okay, everything’s okay.

Mikey opens his mouth to tell him that but his throat just clicks, spitless cause he's been mouth-breathing like he's braindead.

“Fuck,” he coughs, swallows, tries again, “I need a drink,” and Gerard’s head lolls his way instantly like he’s on a sound trigger. He’s got his eyelids drooped down so far they may as well be closed.

"Bet your mouth feels like tarmac, right?"

Still coughing, Mikey nods, feeling his eyes start to water, his face flush. It’s weird how it doesn’t feel bad, just hot, like temperature-wise hot, sticky. He's just choking and there’s a newness to it.

Gerard scrubs his hands over his face and sits up, making a low kinda humming noise, and grinding his teeth faintly, like his bones gotta reset. His hands linger. He’s on twice the dose Mikey is; he'd said _you’re so skinny you’ll have the tolerance of a five-year-old, I can handle it_ and given him half a pill. He feinted he was gonna pass it like the real-deal ravers do, shove it into Mikey’s mouth with his tongue and let it dissolve between their mixed spit, but Mikey had been too stupid to realize that's what he was going for until his tongue was two inches from his mouth and it went from nasty older-brother prank to something worse and he had to sucker punch him in the stomach, hard. He still took the Gerard-drool-wet pill anyway, let it melt in his mouth like chalk dust in a downpour.

“Water bottle under the couch,” Gerard says. When his arms go down he kinda jolts, eyelids fluttering real brief, then shivers, head twitching to one side like there’s a spark caught in it.

“Dude.” Mikey stops mid-water bottle hunt to stare at him. “What was— you good?” and he doesn't mean to tuck his feet under himself and lean forward like a kid in front of a TV on Saturday morning but he does anyway, moving before the thought gets to his brain that he’s stopped, it only lasted a half-second, there was no point. But he wants to see.

Gerard’s head gives another tiny jerk towards his left shoulder and he stills, like it was just a shrug. “Yeah, yeah, I’m better than good,” he says, chin tucked at his throat and hair sheeting his face, loopy grin, “I walked over my grave.”

Mikey blinks. He wants to touch Gerard’s hair. It looks like he hasn’t washed it in a week. It looks soft. Mindlessly, like he’s anticipating doing just that, he strips off his gloves and tosses them balled-up at the TV screen.

“Don’t think that’s right, man,” he says, a laugh sticking in his ribcage, and takes a swig of water; it goes down so cold it feels solid.

Gerard grins, starts rolling the inside of his wrist over the couch like Mikey had been doing with his face, like that’s the only part of him that needs to feel it, and says “Dig up my own grave?”

“Swing and miss."

"What's it feel like?" he says, switching rails that fast, obsessively picking strands of his hair out of his eyes like he's gotta move them one by one.

Mikey pauses, trying to find the right words. It's like when they’d go to the YMCA pool for summer swimming lessons and he'd hang upside-down from the tile wall, submerged from thighs-up, and if he stayed still it didn't even feel as if he was underwater anymore. Like he could just breathe it in, fill his lungs just fine, but he can’t say that in so many words so he says, "Wet."

Gerard squints. "Huh."

Then Mikey’s full-on giggling. He thinks Gerard is too, or maybe he's echoing back to himself, and then all at once the slope of his shoulders in his green fake-velvet girl's hoodie and the hang of his hair and his hand getting dragged across the sofa brings something back into Mikey’s head, just like that, all at once. It takes him a second to pin it down and then it's there, and it's flooding his brain and spilling out of his mouth because he needs to tell him. He doesn't know why he needs to tell him.

"Gee," Mikey says, slipping into that snicky little nickname, "Gee, dude, you just— you remember that shit they used to sell at Mickey’s, the old record shop?" and he gets even closer to him and takes his arm, wrapping his hands around his joint like it's urgent news and he needs all of him to listen. He turns and accidentally rubs Mikey’s hands off against the cushion but that's okay because he puts them right back on his shoulders anyway.

"What shit?"

"Think it was like— magazines? Fangoria?”

Gerard reaches up and starts petting the back of his hand like a weirdo. "Yeah. The ones with, like, the picture of the dude who pulled out his guts 'cause he was on crack," he says, and lightly scratches his fingernails over his tendons, leaves dry white lines.

"I saw a news story about some kind of meth-hopped zombie eating people's faces in Florida," Mikey says, mushmouth.

"I think that was bath salts," Gerard says, equally sloppy.

Mikey frowns, not sure if he believes him. "You can get high off bath salts? Like that pink Himalayan stuff?"

"Did you ever see that one gif of the kid taking a hunk out of someone's arm?" he says, ignoring him, remembering the fucked up shit he must have seen back in the day before their parents control-restricted the hell out of the computer. His face is all lit up and he's still petting Mikey's hand. It feels really good.

"Holy shit, no, please tell me you saved it."

"I didn't, fucking wish I did,” he says, “think it was on one of the sites they blocked.”

"Then describe it, c'mon. You got me curious."

Gerard goes "Uh," halts and hesitates, but Mikey’s looking at him so intent, leaned forward like an idiot. "I think it was some high-school kid, mophead like you, and he— she— they just grabbed another guy's arm and snapped off a piece of their skin." He bares his teeth and sharply clicks them together, trying to show how blink-and-you'll-miss-it fast the bite was. "And it tore like a water balloon, or something, and then the blood just fucking poured, man. It was sick nasty."

He gives another weird little shudder and this time Mikey’s close enough to see his eyes actually roll back a little bit before his head droops toward his lap, like he's fainting, like he's having a mini-seizure but he's grinning before his eyes open again so Mikey thinks it's okay, everything's okay. Just the X.

"God," Gerard breathes, and his breath goes warm against Mikey’s cheeks and it smells kinda weird, bad, like the way his mouth tastes after he's had a dentist's drill in it. He lets go of his hand and throws himself back on the couch, works his legs a few times like a dog softening blankets.

"Shit, how fucken' hard do you think it is to do something like that?" Mikey asks, "just draw blood, use your mouth?"

"Dunno, never tried to go _Sharknado _on someone," Gerard says, and it's a joke, and this is all a joke, but there's a little tinge to his voice. Mikey tries to pull his bony cold feet into his lap.

"The movies always make it look easy. Like, y'know, just chomp and it'll rip, start gushing," Mikey says, mumbling, and Gerard’s thighs press together just a bit, just a touch. He thinks about that supposed gif— supposed because he's not sure if Gerard made it up or not— and how many times he must have watched it to remember it all like that, the rubber pull of the kid's skin, the sudden flushed-out blood. Mikey’s lungs kinda stutter on the inhale.

Now Gerard’s sat up, now he's looking at him propped up on his elbows. His mouth opens, closes. He's stuck on something. Mikey glances down at his black sock'd feet in his lap, the scuffed hem of his pants.

"Do you want to try it?" he says.

Mikey’s still looking at his feet and not at him. "Try what?"

And it's nothing but it's everything in the way Gerard looks at him then, like all the joke drained out of him.

"Gee, try what?" he asks again, slower.

Gerard shoves up the sleeve of his hoodie and holds his forearm out, lets his bare pale arm hover in front of Mikey’s face as if he's a cartoon dog, and he’s a bone.

Mikey laughs because he doesn’t know what the hell else to do. Gerard smiles a little sideways but his arm's still out, still hanging there, looking stripped and skinned without a sleeve. Goosebumps are running up and down it.

"Dude," he says. He rolls his eyes and lets his arm fall like he'd cut the strings and, again, Mikey thinks of that stupid gif and how he says it the wrong way— hard _g_, not _jiff_ as in the peanut butter, how it’s supposed to be said— and how low-tuned and tight he sounded when he'd described it to him. All the loving, memorized details. The bone-click of his teeth against the air.

"This is totally a weird sex thing for you, isn't it?"

Gerard’s feet twitch in his lap and he waits for it to turn into one of those shudder-seizure things, but it stays local. "Are you fucking kidding me? Weird doesn’t cut it. This is, like, out of the ballpark strange. Home-run nutso," he says, and it stings a little, how obviously he's trying to lighten the mood.

Gerard pulls out of his lap and folds himself into criss-cross applesauce.

"Wouldn't be the weirdest thing we've ever done," he says, either smirking or grimacing or both.

Mikey’s brain spits out a snippet of some random song, _I'm glad I came here with your pound of flesh,_ just a blip. "You actually want me to bite a hunk out of you," he says. It’s not really a question. He kind of feels like he's got a headrush going, or a tension headache, or whatever it is that makes it feel like his heart is ticking behind his lower eyelid.

Gerard starts fidgeting, tucks his hair behind his ear, pulls it back out. He's so good at this. "Like I said, not the weirdest—"

"I got that,” he says. “Do you have to bring that up every time we're high?"

"When in Rome."

Mikey doesn't respond.

They got drunk a few times, that’s all. If Gerard ever asks, Mikey says he blacked out because he knows his brother thinks he did, and he can’t tell him what they did to each other under the lava-lamp glow of the CD player lights. He can’t stay how often he thinks about it, how it doesn’t keep him up at night or haunt him in his dreams; it all just curled up in his heart and went to sleep like a mouse in the drywall.

This is just what they do.

"Mikes," he says, drawing it out with too many i’s, "not even, like, a chunk. Just a bite. Draw blood.” There's that phrase again, like in _Werewolves of London,_ that throwaway lyric. “Jackass stunt type thing.”

"One bite?" he asks, even though before Gerard started lobbying him for keeps he'd known he was gonna give in because he's _Gerard_, he’s his brother, and that’s all the convincing Mikey needs. There's a weird kind of guilt puddled in his gut about making him try this hard.

So slow Mikey almost doesn't notice, Gerard’s hand slips against his thigh, too close to the soft inside for comfort. He squeezes once, like he's trying to reassure him. Mikey gets that sticky-hot choking sensation again, just for a second, just in his chest; it catches, and as reflexive as can be his whole body stitches up and he shakes just like Gerard’s been doing, over just as fast. He's left with his mouth parted, panting. Post-shock. This has been the start of so many things that he doesn’t talk about, that sort of touch; the prelude alarm to having a lap full of stoned-drunk-whatever brother and a mouth on his.

The back of his knuckles brushes against Mikey’s neck just shy of his jaw, cold and soft enough to make him shiver again, fingers curling up.

"Chill, Mikey," Gerard murmurs. “It’s okay.”

His sleeve goes back up to his elbow. He’s always been pale, but the fishbelly white underside of his arm looks translucent in the light. Mikey swallows, hard.

“So I just—” he grasps his wrist and glances up at him, “go for it?”

Gerard’s cheeks have gone pink, making his eyes look huge and Kewpie-doll-ish, and he went tense as soon as he touched him. “Yeah,” he says, clipped, get-on-with-it.

Mikey bites him. He's too far back in his head, too high to think to make it all quick and sharp like he should; he just clamps down, as hard as he can force himself, and there’s this faint rapid _clickclickclick_ noise that he can feel way back in his throat more than hear, an instant pressure ache in his teeth.

Gerard makes a blistering kind of whine. His shoulders bunch and he stares down at him, shellshocked, breathing like a sprinter. Experimentally, Mikey bites down a little more and he jerks his knees up, swears; without even realizing it Mikey sucks a bit like he's trying to give him a hickey, and he doesn’t know if Gerard can feel it or not.

“You look like a fucking zombie,” he says, clenching his jaw, and shakes Mikey up and down, rattles his head. It makes his brain bounce and, jarred, he lets him go with a faint sucking noise. A line of drool stretches between his skin and his upper lip, then snaps.

Gerard hisses and pulls his arm to his chest. “Man, you didn’t even break the goddamn skin,” he complains, pulling at the mark, stretching it out and looking into the grooves like he’s expecting there to be something missing, wincing with his nose scrunched and his face flushed. There’s nothing but a few broody red dots and a neon pink imprint of Mikey’s dental record.

Mikey pulls the spit off his lips with the side of his hand and rubs it on the knee of Gerard’s jeans. He’s so busy prodding at himself he doesn’t notice.

“Alright, your turn,” he says, speaking into the couch cushions, thumb still dug into the mark.

Mikey snorts. “Yeah, right.”

He looks up, just a mess of black hair with his eyes barely peeking through, looking like Cousin It: The Early Years. "You don’t want to?”

"You can keep your rabies, dude,” he says, and Gerard pouts, like he’s five instead of nineteen.

“Mikes, it feels good on X.” He waves his hands around a little. “Like, tingly and shit, it’s nice.”

Mikey must still look doubtful because he frowns harder, picks up his hand only to watch him flinch back. “Just try it, c’mon, don’t be pussy. You’ll like it.”

“Will I?”

Gerard crosses his fingers over his heart. “Scout’s honor.”

Mikey can’t argue with scout’s honor. "When in Rome," he says, echoing him and that doesn't make any goddamn sense but Gerard seems to get it anyway, leans forward and gently picks up his arm and breathes out once, clamps his mouth just below his elbow.

“Jesus!” Mikey yelps and try to shove him off, instinctive, but he’s got him caged against the armrest, backed him into a corner. Gerard chuffs a laugh and bares his teeth so Mikey can see when they’re sunk in, won’t let go of his arm until he smacks him against the forehead with the heel of his palm; Mikey watches his mouth pop off with nauseated fascination, his stomach roiling with shock and some bizarre strain of arousal reserved for when his brother tries to sink his teeth into the sensitive underside of his arm like a rabid little animal.

“Ow, what the fuck,” Gerard says and works his jaw, nose brushing against the crook of his elbow, “that is, like, so hard to do. Movies are liars.”

Mikey squirms, desperately wanting out from under him and to baby the bite mark, which is aching in heat-pulse waves all the way to his fingertips and so totally not tingling. “Get off me, man,” he says, but he just tilts his head and smiles at him some more, the liar. “I’m serious!”

“Why?” he says, and dips his head back to his arm. Mikey tenses up and gets ready to kick him in the balls if he chomps him again, but he delicately takes a pinch of skin between his teeth, gives him a soft little love bite that stings just enough to make him twitch.

“Oh,” he blurts, bewildering himself; Gerard smiles and he can feel the wet slick glide of his teeth against his skin and suddenly, he's half-hard in his trashy skater jeans. He moves, laps at the bite with a flat, hot tongue. “Fuck off, Ger—”

“Think I managed to scrape off a couple layers,” he says like that’s something to be proud of. Mikey let his head fall back onto the armrest and glares down at the part of the mark that isn’t draped with his nasty hair; sure enough, there’s a steadily-reddening circle of lightly torn skin, just deep enough to ooze a little plasma. As he watches, disgustingly, Gerard licks it up.

"You’re insane,” Mikey says, “This is so gross—” and almost gets the top of Gerard’s head slammed into his nose when he pulls down his flannel, yanks up his tee sleeve, and licks a long swathe up to his shoulder.

“I’m just following up, man. Not my fault you’re getting off on it.” He digs his canine into a beauty mark on Mikey’s collarbone. His leg jumps, unconscious, and he groans, stomach twisting. Gerard mutters something slurry and high-pitched into his neck and has another shivering fit.

“Gerard—”

“C’mon, you like it,” he pants, bites his throat. Mikey yelps again and starts to pull away but a second later he’s licking from his collar to his jawline, and it’s either the ecstasy as-promised or his own shitty complexes but it makes him go boneless underneath him. His smell’s clogging up his nose, all unwashed hair and dry sweat, that strange dentist's-office breath.

“How many times are you gonna do this?” Mikey says, not meaning to come off pathetic but totally sounding like a pussy anyway. Gerard stops, mouth hovering over his cheek, and then pulls away abruptly, sucking all his warmth away and leaving him cold again.

A beat. Gerard looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t even try to make eye contact with him. Mikey’s holding too still and that underwater-air feeling is back, haloing his head and the bare skin between his socks and pant leg, and he's staring at the dirty arc at the edge of Gerard’s fingernails while he rubs at the bite mark, flushing it redder, stoplight bright. He wants to say _I didn’t mean anything,_ he wants to tell him to _come back, wait,_ but if they move from either end of the couch it’ll keel over without the counterweight, this is some stupid balancing act, they're trying to stay upright, keep their heads above water even though they're both hard and wanting. Gerard can do that to him sometimes. Heavy, humid.

“Fuck it,” Gerard snaps, and shoves his hand down his pants, immediately slumping his shoulders and groaning. "You don’t have to watch, weirdo.”

“I’m the weirdo, now?”

“Yeah, and I’m the king of freak city,” he says but it’s toothless because he starts shaking, arms pressed inward, sternum jumping.

"Goddammit.” Mikey gets closer and Gerard flinches away and the contrast is bizarre. He shouldn’t have said anything; this isn’t the first or the last time because he likes mooching Gerard’s drugs, and when he's out of his head going all Hotel New Hampshire with his brother just happens, like they’re magnets, like something knocked them polar and he can’t stop being okay with whatever Gerard wants to do to him.

“Come here,” he says, and Gerard shakes his head but he thinks, maybe, the corner of his mouth twitches. Mikey grabs the back of his neck.

“Freak,” Gerard spits, but he’s laughing, and Mikey twists his hair in his fingers and licks up the side of his cheek, returning the favor. “Ugh!”

Gerard sits down on his thigh with his leg jammed into his crotch and Mikey could cry from the contact; he grinds down on his knee without really meaning to or caring. Gerard groans, stifled, and he realizes how worked up he is. He looks like he’s about ready to come in his boxers, face flushed, sleeves asymmetrically rolled to show Mikey’s teeth stained into him.

It takes a second. Gently, Gerard starts rocking onto his thigh, like he lost that surge of stray-dog fever and doesn’t want to spook him now.

“Mikey,” he says, low volume, and he sits up, gets in closer to him, says “Yeah, Gee, I’m here,” and the way his eyelids flutter makes his dick twitch against Gerard’s knee.

“Mikes, mikes, mikes.” He reaches down and grabs his dick, squeezes, and he's right there, he has him right there. They’ve never done it like this before, this tight-in, just spitty makeouts and the occasional grope. “What’re we doing?”

“I have no idea,” he says, a little too shakily. Gerard nods and bites his lip and curls up like he might cry. Mikey thinks he's forgetting to swallow; he sees a pool of spit behind his lower lip and teeth when his mouth falls open, shiny with surface tension.

Gerard’s eyes squeeze shut as he picks up the pace, frantically rubbing himself through his pants, free hand digging into the couch cushion so he doesn’t claw at him. It reminds Mikey a little bit of how girls get themselves off in porn, that stiff curled torso and flat-fingered hand rabbiting up and down and yeah; that puts a needle in his spine, thinking how his older brother looks like he's working a clit instead of jerking himself off. He's so gone he's whimpering a little, harsh and sharp, so desperate it makes Mikey’s fillings ache.

"Why this?" he takes Gerard’s shoulders and pulls him closer to make it conspiratorial, knocking off his rhythm, whispering not in his ear but into the top of his head because he’s got his forehead planted on his chest. "Why's this turn you on so bad?" tripping over his words, needing to know, needing to make it work for him.

" 'S like," he says, "the blood or some kinda shit like that, Mikes. If one of us had bled."

"Why?"

Miserably, he shakes his head and shrugs at once, tight little motion like he doesn't even know. Drags his palm down harder as if he's trying to crush his dick. It’s gotta hurt. He looks like he wants it to hurt.

"Okay, okay," Mikey says, "Hold on, wait, I can,” and he twists backward— jostling Gerard to one side— so he can reach over the arm of the couch and almost rip the drawer out of the end table. Fumble, fumble, the teeth scored into his arm aching and stinging with every flex of his bruised muscles. Receipts, old cigarette packs, plastic gumball-machine rings, guitar picks. Pocket knife.

Mikey slices open the pad of his thumb, clumsy, fast, too shallow so he has to go over it again and squeeze it to make anything well up.

"Gerard.” Mikey foregoes trying to make sense of this bullshit and takes his dripping thumb, shoves it against his lips, hopes he gets the idea. His eyes flick open and he parts his teeth enough to let him shove it in there; the noise he makes sounds almost painful to get out, like he's letting it rip up his throat.

He clamps down on his finger with his incisors and it fucking hurts, burns worse than his arm. Mikey remembers that urban legend about biting fingers in half like carrot sticks; he panics and yanks away, thumbnail scoring the roof of Gerard’s mouth but he doesn't let up at first, and Mikey’s skin catches and tears under his teeth, ripping wider. Blood smudges over his lips and down his chin, livid, livid red.

"Don't fucking gnaw it off," he hisses, and now there's warm pain wrapped like an opera-length glove from his thumb to where Gerard’s teeth marred up his arm.

Gerard mutters _sorry_, still with that distant stare, still getting himself off but slower now, clipped-up movement, hunched over. Mikey hesitates, watches his tongue go over and over his lip, obsessively looking for any trace of blood left on his skin. His spit's gotta be pink-tinted.

“We’re so fucked up,” he whispers, and Gerard grins beneath his hair and nods, says yeah, yeah, more air than sound.

Again, he slips the pad of his injured thumb between Gerard’s teeth, letting him taste it. His lower lip folds under Mikey’s finger like he’s a wild animal shot-up with tranquilizers and he's checking his teeth, looking for damage. Studying him. A wave of sharp-edged heat rolls up his chest, over his face. Freezerburn.

Gerard actually sucks it; wraps his lips around his thumb and pulls at the cuts with his tongue like he's nursing in the most fucked up way. Mikey wants to kiss him but there isn’t room, so he smudges his mouth along the corner of his lip and his cheek, his jawbone, whatever he can reach.

He’s shaking so hard Mikey thinks he's gonna fly apart, making this muffled ah-ah-ah noise around his thumb, hips hitching up, and then he freezes, digging his knees into either side of Mikey’s thigh.

"Did you just—"

"Mmfyeah," he mumbles, and stills after a couple more seconds of stitched-up trembling, lets Mikey’s thumb slip out of his mouth with a nasty slick noise and buries his face in his shoulder.

“Shit, man, I thought that only happened in porn,” Mikey says. Gerard huffs into his neck.

Mikey pushes him off so he can breathe and Gerard slithers off the couch and in between his knees, bright pink. He just sits there, cheek against the couch cushion, watching as he awkwardly unzips his fly and starts to jerk off like this is some no-eye-contact staring contest because Mikey’s watching him, too, the small wet spot left of center on his crotch.


End file.
